


It is not that I love you less / Than when before your feet I lay (But to prevent the sad increase / Of hopeless love, I keep away)

by Onceuponadisneypotter



Series: Half a Century of Poetry [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: He is in Lettenhove, Jaskier is best uncle, Jaskier is part-fae, Jaskier keeps his promises, Jaskier's internal monologue, M/M, Mention of Ciri, Mention of Roach, brief mention of death (Jaskier's parents & one sibling), but this is not the one, he thinks about the unfairness of what Geralt told him on The Mountain, his sister has taken over his title, i swear this series will contain at least one non-angst fic, inspired by The Self Banished by Edmund Waller, mention of nieces and nephews, no beta we die like renfri, post-mountain, ridiculously long title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:01:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Onceuponadisneypotter/pseuds/Onceuponadisneypotter
Summary: Jaskier, back in Lettenhove for the winter, considers how Geralt's words on the Mountain were unfair, but that nothing on this world can stop him from loving the Witcher anyways.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Half a Century of Poetry [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825762
Comments: 2
Kudos: 106





	It is not that I love you less / Than when before your feet I lay (But to prevent the sad increase / Of hopeless love, I keep away)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is inspired by the poem 'The Self Banished' by Edmund Waller. The poem is split up in pieces throughout the fic, but I will place the entire text of it in the endnotes.

They had talked, after the Mountain. Or, well, Jaskier had talked. Geralt had been about to leave when Jaskier finally made his way down, exhausted and devastated and wounded from the lonely, perilous journey downhill. It was clear that Geralt had wanted to avoid him, but Roach, always a sucker for the sweet sugar cubes and shining apples the bard usually carried with him, had approached Jaskier on her own free will. And he had to say  _ something _ , he couldn’t just stay silent. So he had given a promise.  _ I will not come to you, but if you ever change your mind I should not be hard to find.  _

And so he had. There was much that could be said about the bard, about his extravagance and tendency to ignore the rules. But if Jaskier made a promise, he made sure to keep it. Which is why he almost never made promises, regardless of what other people might  _ think  _ he did. Answering ‘sure’ to ‘will you promise to stay behind whilst I fulfil this contract’ meant that he is open to  _ making  _ that promise, but not that he is actually making it. Being part-Fae, fully noble and just generally a little shit made Jaskier proficient in finding loopholes in his so-called promises. But this? This was a real promise. And he had kept to it.

It was winter, and Jaskier had returned to Lettenhove to reunite with his sister and his nieces and nephews. The little kids were elated to see their favourite (and only) uncle, and although his brother-in-law - who had married quite above his station and continually feared Jaskier would reclaim his rightful place as heir - was less happy to see him return, his sister had welcomed him with open arms. The lands of Lettenhove looked gorgeous in the shimmering snow, white like- Jaskier bit his lip, an awful habit he had picked up since-

Avoiding the thought was hopeless. He had tried everything to distract himself, but nothing could take away his endless, hopeless, futile lover for Geralt of Rivia, friend of humanity. His sister had noticed, of course. Damn observant, that woman. She had always been, but Jaskier was sure it had gotten even worse now that she was a mother. The Fae blood probably didn’t help either. 

‘Why don’t you write it out? That always helped you when you were younger,’ she had said one day, breaking through Jaskier’s musings of how the colour of her dress reminded him of Geralt’s eyes.

‘You don’t have to share it with me, or anyone, if you don’t want to. But it might help.’ 

So here he was, sitting in the manor’s humble library overseeing the snow-covered vineyard, with a quill in hand and paper in front of him like he was twelve, whilst longingly staring at his baby brother, who now lied next to his parents in graves covered in snow, and younger sister, who were allowed to play outside whilst he was forced to make his homework. Now he looked down at a new generation of children. One day he had wished he could have some of his own, and he could not deny that, after Geralt had accidentally ended up with a child surprise, he had dreamed of the three of them forming a family. Nothing now could be further from the truth. Instead of living in a cottage near the sea, Geralt retiring from his Witcher business to open a smithy, Jaskier opening a school and them raising the adorable Ciri together, Geralt had refused to claim his promised child, shunned Jaskier from his life and gone off to who-knew-where to, as far as Jaskier knew, continue killing monsters for little pay. He had not come to apologise, not come to ask Jaskier to rejoin him, not come to find him at all. And so, Jaskier had kept his promise. And Jaskier had kept away. If only his heart would get the message, too. 

_ It is not that I love you less _

_ Than when before your feet I lay, _

_ But to prevent the sad increase _

_ Of hopeless love, I keep away. _

Carefully placing his quill back in the inkpot, Jaskier resumed his watch over the playful children in the snow. They had found some sticks now, and were playfighting. From his third-floor window he could hear fragments of their conversation.

‘You -- monster!’

‘I wanna be the Witch--’

‘--ys get to be the Witcher!’

‘Because the Witchers are -- cle Jaskier says so!’

‘I don’t want to be a kimimomo! I don’t want to be the bad --’

Jaskier smiled at little John’s mispronunciation of the monster’s name. The kids, inspired by Jaskier’s songs, had taken to playing ‘Wicher and Monster’, with dramatic fake-out deaths and some accidental real injuries. It seemed that, even in the quiet, boring lands of Lettenhove, Jaskier could not avoid being reminded of the man he loved so dearly. The snow as white as his hair, his sister’s yellow dresses, the wolf statues at the entrance of the property, the children’s play, the notes with unfinished lyrics describing Geralt’s heroic actions Jaskier had left behind during previous stays… Every day there was something, no matter how small, that reminded him of the man he had lost. The soup that tasted exactly like that served in the inn where he had first been allowed to wash the Witcher’s hair. The snide remarks from his brother-in-law that seemed to come straight from Geralt’s vocabulary. Filavandrel’s lute, greeting him whenever he entered his room. Everything around him was another tiny dagger piercing through his skin, making its way to his heart and cutting yet another piece of it in half. 

_ In vain (alas!) for everything _

_ Which I have known belong to you, _

_ Your form does to my fancy bring, _

_ And makes my old wounds bleed anew. _

It had been late spring when they had parted. It felt like they had barely reunited after winter, during which Geralt had visited his strange Witcher castle Jaskier was never invited to and Jaskier had spent his days teaching Ciri and nights playing his music at the Cintran court. And although he loved the court, Calanthe’s murderous glares when he accidentally mentioned Geralt had made him nervous enough to be happy when spring arrived and he could leave again, back on the road, following the person holding his rapidly-beating heart without even being aware of it. The dragon hunt had only been their fourth contract of the year, and after- After, when summer still stretched in front of him for another six long months, everything had felt  _ off.  _

Sure, he had travelled, sang his songs at inns and bars and the occasional manor. Sure, he had met up with other bards, competed in a couple of sing-offs, written a handful of new songs which gained instant popularity. Sure, he had lived the life any normal, travelling bard did. But he wasn’t  _ normal  _ now, was he. He was Jaskier, Bard Extraordinaire, the best songwriter and lute-player on the Continent. His audience’s words, not his. He knew there was always something to be improved upon: a lyric that could be better, a beat he missed, a chord he botched. His audience might not notice, but he most certainly did. He would make quite an awful bard if he didn’t, after all. So, even though he did everything any other travelling bard would do, those six months had been strange. He had automatically found himself drawn to notice boards, turning around to inform Geralt of a contract only to be, once again, reminded the man was not there. No rhythmic sound of hooves touching the dirt during the day, no scraping noise of someone sharpening their sword near the campfire during the evening, and just his own breath breaking the silence of the night. It had been as if the world was ill, asleep in bed trying to fend off a fever that caused strange, surreal visions that gave everything normal a slightly sickly hue. Maybe his sister was right, maybe writing would help heal his broken heart.

_ Who in the spring from the new sun _

_ Already has a fever got, _

_ Too late begins those shafts to shun, _

_ Which Phœbus through his veins has shot. _

The playful screams of the children in the snow briefly silenced as the cheery voice of Molly the Cook called out that dinner was almost done. Jaskier knew that one of the kids would knock on his door soon, giving Uncle Jaskier the same message. Three stanzas in just as many hours, a poor yield for a poet of his stature. A sudden rage overtook him as he looked down at the half-empty paper. The words Geralt had thrown at him on the Mountain had felt fair at first, but after moping about them for while, Jaskier had realised that Geralt had been incredibly unfair.  _ Him,  _ shovelling Geralt’s shit? Yes, shovelling it out of his stable and onto the compost pile where it belonged. It was  _ Geralt  _ who created the shit around him, making stupid wishes that endangered the people around him, invoking the law of surprise less than fifteen minutes after learning Parvetta was a child surprise herself. Surely the Witcher knew that child surprises tended to give birth to child surprises, surely he smelled that Parvetta was pregnant to begin with. Even Jaskier had noticed that Parvetta had worn an unusual, slightly-out-of-style dress clearly intended to hide her abdomen. If Geralt had not been so incredibly self-centred, so incredibly self-absorbed and emotionally stunted he would have realised that his words were absolute bullshit. It had been Jaskier who had calmed Calanthe enough to not send hundreds of assassins after Geralt. It had been Jaskier who had tried to take the djinn away so the clearly exhausted Witcher would not do anything stupid. His wishes might have sounded idiotic, but they were clearly and precisely phrased, his mother had taught him enough about Fae magic for him to know djinns were just as tricky, if not worse, to deal with. Yes, Jaskier had shovelled the shit, but it was not  _ his  _ fault Geralt liked to dive into every single heap of manure he met. So no, what Geralt had said had not been fair. But by the time Jaskier had gathered enough of his wits to realise that, the Witcher had long been gone, and Jaskier’s promise had already been made. 

_ Too late he would the pain assuage, _

_ And to thick shadows does retire; _

_ About with him he bears the rage, _

_ And in his tainted blood the fire. _

The sound of a wildly thrown-open door and a young boy’s voice shouting his name calmed the bard’s sudden anger. 

‘UNCLE JASKIER DINNER’S READY MOLLY SAYS YOU NEED TO WASH YOUR HANDS!’ Little John, still carrying his stick, now ran into view. 

‘Did Molly also say you were allowed to take your sword inside?’

‘A Witcher always carries his swords with him, you told me so! And I  _ am  _ a Witcher, not a stupid kimino- kimomo-’

‘Kikimore,’ Jaskier helpfully supplied.

‘Yes that. Will you tell Eddy? Will you tell him I’m a Witcher? I don’t want to be a monster, the snow is cold and wet when I fall down to die.’ 

Jaskier smiled at his youngest nephew’s petulant face. ‘Only if you put your sword back outside. True gentlemen don’t carry their swords to the dinner table, not even Witchers. Come, we’ll place it in the stables to keep it safe, and then we go wash our hands together, okay?’

‘Okay, uncle Jaskier. Can I sit next to you during dinner?’

‘Of course you can.’

Jaskier smiled at the young boy stretching out his arms to be picked up. If only life could stay that easy, with simple concerns like cold snow and fake swords. Jaskier knew, after all, it was impossible for him to stay angry. How could he hate the one he loved? The one who had, unknowingly, carried his heart for the past two decades, and would carry it for eternity and beyond? He would keep his promise to the Witcher, he would stay in his self-imposed exile, no matter the cost. A promise is a promise, after all. And just as he would keep the promise he had made to Geralt whilst feeding Roach that final, slightly crushed sugar cube, he would keep the promise he had made to himself whilst walking down the first mountain he and the Witcher had climbed to fight a supposed devil.  _ I will love him till my dying days.  _

And, as he placed his nephew on his back, joking that ‘this horse will lead the noble Witcher to the stables,’ Jaskier mentally composed the final stanza he had struggled with for so many hours. 

_ But vow’d I have, and never must _

_ Your banish’d servant trouble you; _

_ For if I break, you may distrust _

_ The vow I made to love you, too. _

**Author's Note:**

> The Self Banished - Waller
> 
> It is not that I love you less  
> Than when before your feet I lay,  
> But to prevent the sad increase  
> Of hopeless love, I keep away.
> 
> In vain (alas!) for everything  
> Which I have known belong to you,  
> Your form does to my fancy bring,  
> And makes my old wounds bleed anew.
> 
> Who in the spring from the new sun  
> Already has a fever got,  
> Too late begins those shafts to shun,  
> Which Phœbus through his veins has shot.
> 
> Too late he would the pain assuage,  
> And to thick shadows does retire;  
> About with him he bears the rage,  
> And in his tainted blood the fire.
> 
> But vow’d I have, and never must  
> Your banish’d servant trouble you;  
> For if I break, you may distrust  
> The vow I made to love you, too.


End file.
